The Confabulator Cafe

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  • May Stories at the Confabulator Cafe

    April showers bring May flowers, right? Well, what if May also brought terror? I know, I know, usually October is the month for fright. But what if it was something completely not terrifying that was terrorizing a town?

    The Confabulators explored that idea for this month’s prompt. Just when you thought you were safe…

    We also have three returning Cafe contributors this month! We’re very excited to have them back.

    Here’s the May lineup. Please visit us every Monday this month for new stories:

    Monday, May 8: “Fear, Rejection and Spring” by Rob Conway
    Monday, May 15: “Bunnies” by Anita C. Young
    Monday, May 22: “The Election” by Sarah Bredeman
    Monday, May 29: “Arbor Day” by Jack Campbell, Jr.

  • The Cursed Word

    The man lay in his path, screaming. Raymond had been hearing him for the last quarter of a klick or so. There were no words in the scream. Just the sounds of a man’s agony.

    Raymond walked down a narrow path. There were no breaks here, no narrow alleyways where he could move to a different stack. Shelves stretched on as far as he could see, boxing him into a confrontation with the screaming man that he didn’t want.

    The books in this part of the Library were old. Older than any Raymond had come across before. They were crumbling tomes on crumbling wooden shelves, each volume chained into position. The florescent lights overhead cast stark shadows across his path.

    Now that he could see him, the man was about Raymond’s age with the same pasty skin of everyone who was trapped in the Library. He clutched one of the Medieval tomes to his chest as tiny pale worms inched across his clothing. Raymond hadn’t seen anything like them in all of his years of overseas deployments and rotten food.

    He leaned over the man, keeping himself at arm’s length. People were scarce in the Library. Supplies scarcer. And intel. He was surrounded by information but never knew what was happening. He’d come into the Library with no idea of what to expect, but it wasn’t this. (more…)

  • The Touch of Her Hand

    The air conditioning slapped Alyssa across the face as she darted into the store. She managed to step out of view of the glass door before her pursuers rounded the corner. Through the thin walls she could hear their calls of confusion.

    Typically she avoided hiding in stores. It was too easy to become trapped as most often the second exit was guarded by a menacing “employees only” sign. But she was tired of running and she’d gained enough of a lead on them to risk it. She kept her gaze downcast and her hands stuffed in her pockets as she shuffled over to the display of floppy brimmed hats.

    She dropped a hat and the largest pair of sunglasses she could find on the counter. She grunted softly in acknowledgment to the clerk but didn’t make eye contact and was careful not to brush against him when she passed over her debit card. Unfortunately the weather was too hot for her to get away with wearing gloves. It was so much easier to avoid activating her curse in the winter.

    Her phone buzzed, a notification from her bank about the recent transaction. Her fifth purchase of the sort that month. If anyone was paying attention to her purchase history, they’d think had a problem. She waved off the offer of a bag and pulled out a tiny pair of scissors from her purse, cutting away the tags. (more…)

  • Only You

    The crystals hanging from the shop door jingled and Alexandra looked up from counting inventory to find a confused girl looking around.

    Of all the curio shops, why did she have to come to mine? Alexandra wanted to crawl behind the shelves and duck away into the back room. Too bad those beaded curtains would give me away.

    “Hi Gianna, how can I help you?” Alexandra put on her best customer service smile she could muster.

    “There’s sunshine in chairs!” Gianna’s face was contorted in frustration.

    “What?”

    “There’s sunshine in chairs and the tub can’t sing!” Tears were forming around the girl’s infamous pretty brown eyes.

    Alexandra exhaled a soft laugh. “Who did you piss off?”

    “A giraffe and a desk. Will there be pillows?” Gianna’s puppy dog eyes turned hopeful.

    “I can’t understand a word you’re saying, Gianna. Try writing it down.” Alexandra flipped the page on her inventory tally and handed the clipboard to her. (more…)

  • April Stories at the Confabulator Cafe

    As a cruel April Fool’s joke, I was going to tell you that we had no stories for April.

    That’s untrue. We do have stories! Several of them! Please visit us every Friday in April for brand new fiction. Our prompt this month was: a friend has a curse placed on them; what is the curse, and does the protagonist help?

    We hope you enjoy these tales as well as the impending spring weather.

    No fooling.

    Here’s the schedule.

    Friday, April 7: “Only You” by Anita C. Young
    Friday, April 14: “The Touch of Her Hand” by Eliza Jaquays
    Friday, April 21: “The Cursed Word” by Dianne Williams

  • Wrong Place, Wrong Time

    I have no idea how the universal translator works. It just does.

    The thing about keeping bar in an interdimensional speakeasy is that nobody really speaks English, except for myself, and I don’t speak Alien. Nobody really speaks “Alien.” “Alien” isn’t one language, it’s every language, and even some modes of communication I’m not certain even qualify as language. Which makes it pretty difficult to order drinks. That’s where the universal translator comes in.

    Guy comes up to the bar, places an order. He may have a frog-face with a tongue as long as my arm and a vocabulary made up entirely of burps, but what I hear is “vodka martini, please, with two olives.” I mix the drink, hand it over, and the customer goes away happy. If I concentrate, I can still hear the words (or grunts, blusters, clicks, pops, whinnies, howls, random weird smells, or whatever else his species uses for communication), but my brain hears it in English.

    Sometimes I wonder what would happen if I somehow got a translator to the United Nations, but there’s a non-zero chance it would be World War III, so I try not to think about it too hard. (more…)

  • The Brewmaster’s Armor

    “Ah, there she is — the beauty of Stowreath!”

    “I’ve told you, if you keep calling me that, I’ll start selling to other taverns.” Vigdis directed her hired men to carry the barrels of beer to the storeroom behind the bar. She followed behind them, past the smattering of customers at scuffed tables; this time of day it was only ever drunks or passing travelers, making it the perfect time to swap barrels and money with Allyn. “Micah down at The Yawning Goat has offered me a better sum per barrel than I get here.”

    Allyn feigned hurt, as he always did, clutching his hand to his heart. “You wound me, oh beauteous one. If I don’t have your brews, I only have my wife’s cooking to keep this place afloat.”

    “And she’d have no need of you at all.” Vigdis shook her head and was glad her beard could hide her amusement. “This is the last time I let you get away with it.”

    “On my honor, I’ll never do it again.” He winked beforing turning to the men as they brought in the fresh ale. “Come along, lads, I’ll lead the way to the empties.”

    Vigdis paced the length of the bar while Allyn led the men back, lost in the thought of planning her day. The wagon had deliveries needed in four neighboring towns. The weekly circuit took her from sun-up to sundown and being away from home for so long made her anxious anymore. It had been easier when she was young, working in her father’s brewery under the mountains. She had longed for the open road and the promise of adventure each time they loaded their cart.

    “So, you’re the Beauty of Stowreath?”

    “Call me that again if you’d like a bloody nose.” Vigdis squared her shoulders as she turned to face the stranger sitting alone at a nearby table. She longed for an axe, but tended to leave hers in the wagon; instead, she hooked her thumb through the empty loop on her belt and puffed out her chest, filling her breastplate.

    (more…)

  • The Wrong John Dunham

    The ghost didn’t leave after the séance was over.

    That hadn’t ever happened to me before. Although I hadn’t ever had a real ghost show up to one of my fake séances in the first place.

    It started off as one of the fake séances Madame had me do for her shop’s off-the-street clientele. Madame Nneke—whom everyone just called Madame—was the owner and proprietor of Tarot Express, a hokey tourist trap that provided all the New Age stuff any neo-pagan could wish for. Madame pulled out all the stops for the tourists—lots of smoke and mirrors, knocking under the table, me pretending to be in a trance when I pretended to contact the dead. That’s what people expect when they walk into a shop like Tarot Express.

    Mr. and Mrs. Dunham had been no different.

    “Our son was killed overseas. We just want to know what his last thoughts were and let him know how proud of him we are for his service.”

    They presented the medal of valor that had been included with all of his personal effects.

    I made a show of contacting the dead and about jumped out of my skin when he actually showed up. I sat frozen, staring at him. Luckily, the family thought it was part of the act. Unluckily, I didn’t know how to proceed with him standing there, staring at me. (more…)

  • March Stories at the Confabulator Cafe

    Spring tentatively dipped its toe into the water, then did a cannonball into the deep end. But after that, it quickly fled again. We have no idea what season it is here in the Midwest.

    Thankfully, as writers, it can be whatever season we want in our stories.

    This month, the Confabulators wrote about an undeserved accolade someone was desperately trying to get rid of. We hope you’ll take some time to read our stories each week

    Here’s the March lineup (no, that was not a March Madness reference–we don’t know much about sportsball here):

    Wednesday, March 8: “The Wrong John Dunham” by Sara Lundberg
    Wednesday, March 15: “The Brewmaster’s Armor” by Ashley M. Hill
    Wednesday, March 22: “Wrong Place, Wrong Time” by Aspen Junge

  • Rocky Start

    The soccer ball caught her right in the face knocking her glasses askew. That didn’t bother her though. The fact that they laughed didn’t bother her. She didn’t even mind not getting an apology. They never gave one so why should now be any different? No, what bothered her was the fact that she had lost her place. Picking up the book from the field, she gently brushed away the grass blades that had gotten caught between the pages and sighed. She glanced over at the other kids returning to their game. They didn’t look back. She was a brief amusement to them, quickly forgotten.

    Lily wasn’t sure why she was always picked on. Her teachers told her to ignore the bullies and try to make friends. Her mother told her that it wouldn’t matter because they’d be moving again in a year or two anyway. Her sister was too young to have an opinion. Lily stopped by the kindergarten room on her way back from the field, peeking in at the four and five year olds settled in for their lunch time nap. Sometimes the kindergarten teachers would let her stay, not hide, there with her sister. It was awkward to do so when she wasn’t even awake though. Lily kept moving, wandering in the direction of the library.

    She would eat in the library if they let her, but Mrs. Scheffield was very strict about not letting food or drink near the books when in her care.

    “It’s bad enough you snips spill things all over them when you check them out. I don’t want you destroying them in here!” (more…)